


everything is stardust

by spirallings



Series: bokuaka week 2020 [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi Does Not Go to Fukurodani, Alternate Universe - Before Sunrise Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Editor Akaashi Keiji, Falling In Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Maybe Magic Maybe Mundane, Pro Volleyball Player Bokuto Koutarou, Romance, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25721329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirallings/pseuds/spirallings
Summary: After an international training camp in Europe, professional volleyball player Bokuto Koutarou meets literature student from London, Akaashi Keiji, on the train to Verona. He asks Akaashi to get off of the train to spend a few days in Verona with him, and Akaashi says yes. After a week together, they part ways, regretful and knowing the likelihood of ever meeting again is slim.Three years later to the date of Juliet's Birthday festival, the same day they met, fate proves them both wrong.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: bokuaka week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856602
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58
Collections: Bokuaka Week 2020





	everything is stardust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zigur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigur/gifts).



> this fic would not exist without the help of zigur who brought my attention to the film "Before Sunrise" which this piece is explicitly inspired by and an AU of; i have to give them full credit for hashing this 'verse out with me and inspiring its creation!
> 
> _day 6: travel_

_We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too,_

_smiling and crying in a way that made me_

_even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I_

_just couldn’t say it out loud._

_“Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken_

His Grandmother had scoffed at the notion of the red string ever since Bokuto Koutarou was a child, but she’d always spoken of _hitsuzen_ —something that was meant to happen, ordained by fate; the state in which any and all other outcomes are impossible. “Fate is so much more than a red string, Koutarou—it gives you what you need and to reach that outcome is to use them.” According to his Grandmother, coincidences didn’t exist. He’d never been sure what to believe with regards to the powers of fate.

When he met Akaashi Keiji on the train heading westward after an international training camp in Austria, who sat with him and talked to him while not being at all put off by Koutarou’s high-intensity and his erratic mood swings, who hid a little smirk at the way he pouted about the times when he suddenly forgot how to do certain moves when he was doing so well during a game, Koutarou wasn’t sure it was fate yet.

The train was making a stop in Verona, and Koutarou had time off from the end of the training camp until he had to take another train to Rome to fly back to Japan. Akaashi Keiji was a junior at King’s College, finishing an internship in the Netherlands and on the train home to Paris, where he’d get another train back to London. He was taking a detour to write for a few days before having to return home. It should have been a coincidence that they’d met. Just strangers of a similar heritage meeting on a train, having a quick rapport that Koutarou had never experienced with anyone else in his life before, finding a common ground in a mother tongue that made Koutarou feel at ease on a continent with so many different language flying around all at once, and when the train stopped in Verona, Koutarou would get off. Akaashi could continue on. 

As they talked and talked and talked, Koutarou didn’t even notice the time passed. As the train began to slow to a stop in Verona, Koutaoru was seized with a sudden determination and looked at Akaashi, eyes wide.

“Stop here and get off with me, just for a few days. Please.”

Akaashi looked at him with those stunning gunmetal blue eyes, wide with astonishment. Koutarou didn’t think he would say yes, but something told him, deep in his gut— _do it_.

He did.

And Akaashi said—

“..All right.”

They got off the train in Verona together. It was the same week as the festival dedicated to Juliet’s birthday. Koutarou cackled with laughter as Akaashi rolled his eyes at the timing of it all, listened to Akaashi sarcastically criticize the play and yet recite lines of the monologues from sheer memory with a smile, and Akaashi let Koutarou take him by the hand as they wandered the streets under the bright, high sun as love letters were read out lout below Juliet’s balcony. It was a polyglot sea as they had cocktails and coffee at Caffè Filippini, famished after hours of walking along the Adige River, and then a late dinner two blocks away from their hotel.

The second night they spent together in Verona, clothes were shed and they fell naked into the hotel bed together, hands and mouths roaming. For the next three nights they spent at the Oriana, it became a routine.

Koutarou and Akaaashi knew that this wouldn’t continue on beyond these few days they had together, so there was no pretense. Both were prepared to end it when the day for Koutarou’s flight back to Tokyo came. There would be no exchanging of numbers or social media accounts when they went on their separate trains. Nor would there be any attempts at finding each other online when they returned to their respective homes. They lived on separate ends of the world: any chance of this going anywhere beyond those few days was all but impossible. There would be no regrets. That’s what they agreed on. They agreed that it was what was best for both of them.

It was a lie.

Regret spilled through Koutarou as soon as his train to Rome started moving, causing him to nearly pull his hair out because he should’ve said _something_ before he let Akaashi go, never to see him again. There was no hope of anything beyond this fling happening, but—

No one had ever made him _feel_ like that before: like someone who really liked him for who he was and didn’t see his lower moods as a burden.

**_Damn it—!!_ **

He couldn’t have known how, on the train to Paris, Akaashi muttered _Fuck_ under his breath and held his face in his hands, muffling a scream that was just as mournful and full of regret.

They’d just missed each other and would never see each other again. Koutarou would go on date other people, but it had never felt the same as it was with Akaashi. He’d never liked someone like he did Akaashi, and he’d only known him for, at most, five or six days—but Akaashi was on the other side of the world in London, probably having forgotten him already. The few times he slept with other people, all Koutarou could think of was how Akaashi’s body felt against his own, his gasps, how he arched into every touch, how every other body that’d he put to his own just wasn’t the same and didn’t give him that same _feeling_ as Akaashi did—

He tried to put it behind him as just a fun memory. A memory of youthful abandon he could look back on as an extraordinary moment, as if Akaashi Keiji were a distant illumination and not a breathing, human body. He **_tried_**. It didn’t work, no matter what.

Three years passed, and he was sure that he would never see Akaashi Keiji again. On the same day, three years later, Koutarou landed in Verona and checked into the very same hotel on a spur of nostalgia, and he was all but certain that he’d never see Akaashi again—

Until he saw that distinct color of gunmetal blue-green eyes looking at him, wide eyed, from across the lobby. Koutarou’s bag dropped from his hand out of shock.

—He was wrong.

An unlikely coincidence, most would say. Bokuto Koutarou’s Grandmother, well, she would call it _hitsuzen_.

* * *

It’d been a spur of the moment decision, but as soon as Koutarou saw a picture of Lago di Garda, he had to insist on going for half a day. Keiji was loathe to say no, so he didn’t even try to fight the smile on his lips as he bought the railway tickets and used what meager amount of Italian he knew to get them to Sirmione from Porta Nuova. The espresso in Italy was far stronger than any he’d had in Tokyo so Koutarou was wide awake for the hour and a half ride, and made him all too present to the pressure of Keiji pressing against his side. 

Koutarou looked at Keiji’s hand on his knee and reached for it, lacing their fingers together. There was a pause, and then Keiji’s fingers relaxed into his hold.

He’d never seen such crystal clear water before in his life, glowing turquoise and deep blue as the waves gently brushed against the wharf and the sand. They were carrying their shoes in their free hands as they walked along the beach, the waves lapping at their ankles, on a more secluded patch. The smell of fresh cooked fish was thick in the clear air. Rocca Scaligera overlooked the water and to Koutarou, Sirmione was certainly _gorgeous_ —

Akaashi brushed some of his slightly curled tips of black hair back over his ear, slender fingers lingering as the wind gently tussled the dark locks, and his eyes crinkled as he faintly smiled while watching the boats pass by on the water. His thin white shirt hung comfortably off of his slender form, one that Koutarou had come to know intimately well all over again, and he toed at the water, his smile widening somewhat. Their fingers were loosely laced together.

—But it was dull in comparison to the beautiful man that Koutarou never thought he’d ever see again. 

“Do you have someone waiting for you, ‘Kaashi?”

Akaashi turned, blinking with astonishment. “What?”

Koutarou forged ahead, heart racing hard in his chest. He squeezed Akaashi’s fingers. “Back in London—“ he started. “Are you seeing anyone? Like—Dating, and, _y’know_ —“

Frustrated with himself, he exhaled harshly between his teeth: as always, Akaashi waited for him patiently to gather his thoughts and didn’t try to interrupt him.

“..Is there someone waiting for you to come home in London?” He asked, quieter than he normally was. Koutarou forced out an awkward laugh when silence met him, not even giving half a minute before he continued to diffuse the tension. “I sure hope not! Otherwise I’m gonna feel really shitty for being the other man without knowing—Uh, not that I think you’re that kinda person Akaashi, but, ah—“

“No.”

It came so softly but swiftly, Koutarou might have missed it except for how intense the answer was.

Gunmetal met gold, and his breath was still.

“There’s no one back in London,” said Akaashi. “No one is waiting for me there.”

Akaashi held his gaze for a breathless moment and then he slowly turned to look back on the water. He gave a little huff of an exhale and the corner of his mouth quirked. The light of the coming sunset gave Akaashi’s dark hair a little blue-silver glow, and the wind seemed to touch his skin like a lover as it moved.

_Oh,_ Koutarou thought. _Oh, I get it now. This is it for me._

A semi-teasing, sardonic tone entered Akaashi’s voice as he murmured, “With all due respect, Bokuto-san, I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

_This is my person. It’s him. It can’t be anyone else._

* * *

“For a play you don’t like, Akaashi,” said Koutarou, grinning easily as they walked along Piazza Delle Erbe, slipping between the waning crowds of tourists and vendor stands, “You sure know a lot about it.”

Keiji sighed, a half-heartedly pinched expression on his face. “Considering the British never shut up about Shakespeare, I didn’t exactly have a choice, Bokuto-san; but even I can admit to the beauty of the poetry, sometimes. Even if the play’s plot is mind-bogglingly inane.”

Koutarou couldn’t help but laugh even as Keiji muttered _it’s really not that funny,_ _Bokuto-san_ ; given that Keiji willingly became a literature and writing student at university and then went on to become an editor, he inflicted that misfortune on himself. Keiji knew far too much about Shakespeare’s work and _Romeo and Juliet_ than he’d have ever cared to as a result of coming of age in London.

But Keiji was a Tokyo boy at heart, as he’d admitted to Koutarou three years ago on that balcony at the Oriana, a nostalgic, wistful smile that was like a ghost, fleeting, across his face. He’d left Japan with his family when he was twelve and the middle school he’d gone to wasn’t that far from Koutarou’s. They’d even lived in neighboring areas.

He wondered just how many times they’d missed each other before the Akaashi family moved to the other side of the world. What were the **_odds_**?

Koutarou didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore. This was no coincidence. Fate was trying to tell them something, he just knew it. However, for now, he was going to enjoy this little time he had with Akaashi and not think about when they would inevitably have to go their separate ways. Not yet.

As they drew past Casa di Giuletti, the archway that led to the titular balcony of Act 2, Scene 2 (as Keiji pointed out, to Koutarou’s bemusement), they could hear the microphone reading off the love letters and letters to Juliet herself in various different languages. Keiji straightened when he heard one being read out-loud in Japanese, pausing them both in their tracks, before he continued on. Three years ago, they’d gone to stand under the balcony together under the assumption of poking fun at the whole farce, only for Keiji to quiet and observe all of the letters put up on the walls of the building and the love locks on the gate. The atmosphere between them when they left was… different.

Three years have passed; the weight of it could be felt by Keiji, but at the same time… it was as if nothing had changed at all. It was frightening to be able to fall into this again, and oh, there were many attempts to put it behind him when he returned to grey, grey and rainy London, many men on mild first dates, some one night stands, but no one had ever brought so much color and life into him— None could compare to the golden eyed man who struck conversation with him on a whim while on the train. No one had ever touched him, in every way a person could be touched, in the way Bokuto had.

Akaashi Keiji wasn’t the sort of person to do anything on a whim. But as the third year to the date was approaching, something compelled Keiji to go. And now here he was, relearning Bokuto’s smile, his hands, broad body against his own, and all of his exuberance, mirth and kindness. 

Keiji tightened his grip on Bokuto’s hand. There was a pause, and then a returned squeeze. Keiji could feel the brightness of his smile, the wry fondness in his crinkled gold eyes, like stars that reached maturation, without having look at him directly, and yet he did, because he could not get _enough_ —

He wanted to laugh.

He truly was ruined.

Verona was a city that could be easily walked along with leisure when there was no desperate need to be anywhere, and so when Bokuto found a cool-looking restaurant that caught his attention, Keiji had no issues whatsoever in following his lead towards dinner. The prices of some of the items on the menu, however, nearly gave Keiji a heart attack. Bokuto swiftly (and casually) covered everything for the both of them, much to Keiji’s distress. Bokuto didn’t let him pay for a single thing, not even the one glass of wine. 

Much like most of what they had in Verona, it was delicious. And a nice change from pizza: they’d had plenty of that three years ago.

After dinner, Keiji listened with a slight smile, hands tucked behind his back, as they walked and Bokuto (mostly) talked: going pro, the tournaments he’d been in so far, about his team, the Black Jackals, back in Tokyo, all of his teammates and their quirky, eccentric personalities. Names and nicknames like Tsum-Tsum, Omi Omi, Hinata and Meian were thrown around, and Keiji imagined what all them could possibly look like based on Bokuto’s descriptions. Bokuto was especially fond of Hinata, in particular, it seemed, even going so far as to call him his ‘disciple.’ It was all so very endearing and cute.

His eyes lit up like stars when he got excited. It was a beautiful sight.

The Arena di Verona was lit and an orchestra could be heard playing from within. Perhaps, on another night, Keiji would’ve looked up to see what was being played inside, but tonight after a long day at Lago di Garda, he was spent from the highly-sought tourist spots for the day. A long walk to work off the heavy (but delicious) dinner before they returned to the Oriana would suit him just fine—it meant for more time spent with Bokuto.

They were walking along Piazza Brà when Bokuto heard the band playing near the edges of the park. He perked up, eyes lit with interest, and then he grinned when he turned to see a modest group of dancing bodies.

“Looks like fun!” He laughed. “Let’s check it out!”

Keiji didn’t get a moment to protest before Bokuto was taking his hand and pulling him towards the group of people surrounding an amateur band of violinists, guitarists, a drummer and wind instrument players, busking on the side of the Piazza. A group of locals and tourists alike were dancing to their music, a jaunty, high-energy tune that was admittedly putting a bit of a bounce in Keiji’s step. It was apparently the same for Bokuto, because he brought them right into the middle of the crowd, holding onto both of his hands. Beset by sudden nerves, Keiji considered breaking free and asking Bokuto if they could go back to the hotel already instead, knowing that he was not exactly a dancer—but he looked up and met those golden eyes, Bokuto’s smile, and felt the squeeze of his hands in his own.

Sucking in a breath, Keiji straightened and squeezed his hand back. He met Bokuto’s gaze, held it, and nodded.

Bokuto’s grin was so bright it was almost blinding.

There was no coordination to the dance, all limbs and clumsy feet timed to fast-paced music, but Keiji soon forgot his nerves and his lack of experience as Bokuto used his hold on both of Keiji’s hands to swing him in, then back out. He almost smacked a girl in the face as a result, leading Bokuto to apologize in a broken mix of Italian and Japanese. Keiji couldn’t help the peal of laughter that left him at that and when it made him half-stumble into Bokuto’s chest.

He missed the way that Bokuto looked at him at the sound, the widening of his eyes, the peculiar glimmer of them, and how his hands twitched (with want, with a sudden urge to hold him forever) before settling at his waist.

The music gradually began to slow to a more gentle tempo and Keiji looked up. His laughter faded, but his heart was racing no less fast as he met the golden colored eyes that’d haunted him for three years. Large, strong hands were bracing his hips, almost hesitant to press down. He’d felt those hands all over his body but there was a distinct difference now than there was before— Keiji could **_feel_** it how Bokuto barely seemed to blink as they held each other’s gaze, the swell of the music muffled to his ears, the slow rise and fall of the other man’s chest, the glow of gold in the dark and the illumination of the Arena in the foreground—all as if it were something out of a story, Keiji almost didn’t feel as if it was real at all.

But the feeling of Bokuto’s hands on him, the subtle press of their hips, Bokuto’s breath so close to his mouth, the close proximity between them—

Licking his lips, Keiji rose his arms to wrap around Bokuto’s broad shoulders, linking his hands together at the nape of the other man’s neck. A single half-step forward brought their chests together, the distance between them closed. He could feel how Bokuto’s breath caught and saw the glimmer of his ochre eyes, something so intense and piercing that it made Keiji’s gut twist and tighten. 

He’d felt this man pressed full against his naked body almost every night they’d spent together, those spare, fleeting days three years ago, and for the past two they’d spent together after that fateful meeting in the Oriana, and for the next five, he was certain they would spend each more getting to know each other’s bodies once again.

But it was different now. This was a different sort of intimacy now. As Keiji began to lead with a sway of his hips, Bokuto meeting him beat for beat, those hands gripping more tightly at his hips, as if trying to sink through flesh and grasp onto his soul, it had gone far beyond the false pretense of impermanence of a week long casual fling or rendezvous.

For so long, Keiji had tried to convince himself to forget that week and place it in his memory as an experience of fleeting, impulsive youth, from which he would foster a more organic, slow romance back in London. But no man he ever met had ever made him **_feel_** the way Bokuto did. He was sure, now, that no one ever would again.

“ _Akaashi_..”

The hoarse, uncharacteristically quiet murmur of his name drew Keiji’s attention, lifting his head off of the other man’s shoulder. When he met those eyes, Bokuto didn’t say anything, his eyes hooded but bright with an emotion that nearly left Keiji trembling all over. 

“Bokuto-san,” he replied, just as quietly, but no less intensely.

Bokuto’s lips spread into a smile and _Oh_ —

_Oh_ , Keiji thought desperately, _you_ ** _have_** _ruined me, Bokuto Koutarou. There really is no one else for me, is there?_

What a terrifying, wonderful thought that was.

There were no words exchanged when they returned to their hotel room that night. There was only hands on warm, pliant skin, working seamlessly together without the need for verbal exchanges. The electric current between was different that night, and both knew, in their heart of hearts, that there was no going back from this, now. Keiji ran his fingers through faintly damp silver hair, Bokuto’s head against his bare chest as the other man slept peacefully, their bodies exhausted and sated. Keiji’s legs, tangled with Bokuto’s, felt weightless as feathers and his heart was heavy and surging. His eyes closed as strong arms tightened their hold around his waist and Keiji once more had the best sleep he’d had in three years.

Six days later, Bokuto and Akaashi went their separate ways, hesitation dooming them to regret. Bokuto, not having the courage to indulge in a selfish, begging request for Akaashi to come back with him, to see his favorite cafe, to see his home, meet his team and dismantle everything the other man had created for his life in London. Akaashi, afraid that whatever this was between them would simmer and smoke out upon leaving the special space that Verona created, and unwilling to ask Bokuto to uproot his entire life for him, a man he hadn’t spent more than two weeks cumulatively with.

No promises were made. Regret tasted bitter. 

* * *

When Koutarou returned to Tokyo over a day later, he raged and berated himself for being too much of a coward, and no matter how many times Kuroo told him that it was best to put it behind him as a memory, a _good_ memory, and move on, Koutarou couldn’t let it go. He already had, **twice** , letting yet another chance that might never come back again slip between his fingers. Koutarou couldn’t let it go, he **_couldn’t_**.

He couldn’t let another three years pass again. Something was at work to allow him to meet Akaashi again: Koutarou would force fate to work in his favor yet again, because Akaashi was **_it_** —he knew it in his gut.

They **would** meet again.

On the other side of the world, Keiji dropped his work bag on the countertop, rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes with the heel of his palm and stared listlessly outside of the window of his flat. The skyline of London was grey, the smell of rain and dampness carried on the mild wind. The sight was rarely different. His minimally filled apartment stared back at him, gray and tired and so so dreadfully _dull_. This city that has always reminded him, no matter how find he was of its oddities and unique subtleties: _this is not your home. You are only temporary. You are adrift._

There was no color here. There was no life.

Keiji felt it as if he were missing a limb and he was suddenly beset with a terrible, terrible ache that he’d been suppressed for three years.

Sucking in a shudder of a breath, Keiji clenched his fists. A determined glare set on his face.

He rushed into his room and packed a modest backpack full of a few days’ worth of clothes, toiletries, his laptop and its charger, his phone charger, his essential paperwork, and his notebook. He looked up flight times and booked the first flight that worked best time-wise for him. He barely looked at the price. He had plenty for this one, singular impulsive decision.

Keiji did not book a return trip.

Within five hours, Keiji had left his apartment, got on the tube to Heathrow, and he was in the air. 

In another thirteen hours, he was in Tokyo.

Kuroo was trying his best to cheer him up from his morose mood, but Koutarou could feel himself deflating as he rested his chin on his elbows, staring glumly outside the window. Kenma’s softer voice was muffled to his ears: all he could hear was the ghost of Akaashi’s voice.

There was a figure walking down the street towards the cafe, looking a bit lost, glaring down at his phone then looking up, squinting, dark-rimmed glasses resting on his slender nose. Dark hair, slightly curled at the tips. Long fingers that a pianist would be jealous of. 

Gunmetal blue-green.

Koutarou was on his feet in an instant.

Harried, sleep-deprived and exhausted, Keiji lowered his phone into his coat pocket and looked up, breathing heavy. He looked up, and he met wide, shimmering golden eyes. Koutarou’s mouth was agape and he clenched it shut, face scrunching as his eyes watered.

“I’m sorry, Bokuto-san,” breathed Keiji. “I didn’t want to wait.”

Koutarou broke into a sprint and met him halfway, gathering Keiji in his arms, the other man wrapping his arms around his shoulders as Koutarou lifted him up and off of the ground, and kissed him with all of the desperation and feeling his body could give. Keiji returned the kiss in matching passion and neither were sure who began to cry first: but it didn’t matter.

It was better than anything Verona could ever offer. It was no coincidence. It was _hitsuzen_.

* * *

**_Romeo_ ** _: What shall I swear by?_

**_Juliet_ ** _: Do not swear at all;_

_Or, if thou wilt, swear by they gracious self,_

_Which is the god of my idolatry,_

_And I’ll believe thee._

_(Act II, Scene II)_

**Author's Note:**

> y'all have no idea how hard it was for me to not turn this into a full fledged 15k+ word fic. maybe for a big bang in the future...


End file.
